


Heretic

by 11dishwashers



Series: Submerged In Bronze [2]
Category: Fire Emblem: If | Fire Emblem: Fates
Genre: Character Study, Other, Royalty
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-04
Updated: 2017-10-04
Packaged: 2019-01-09 03:55:57
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,421
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12268374
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/11dishwashers/pseuds/11dishwashers
Summary: Marx's prototype of a perfect son shows up at the door, asking for a three course dinner and some remorse.





	Heretic

**Author's Note:**

> This takes place after Nohr has won the war, and Marx is now the king.

If you woke up the way I did, you could convince yourself you were in heaven. It was no longer Charlotte's presence that lead me to believe this, though she looked like an angel with her fair hair and aerian eyes. I don't like comparing my lovers to toilets, but she certainly looked, felt, and acted like porcelain. 

When I say heaven, I meant the white drapes that wisped at the ends, the narrowest windows in the castle that let only diligent light through, the blank ceiling, our bedsheets, were all white. The snow collected on our window pane and killed our plants. 

I rolled over. Charlotte was squeaking lightly in her sleep, like a rubber toy. I looked at her without feeling creepy- she almost encouraged it, after all. I looked at her splotchy red nose(influenza) and her hair that spidered all over the pillows and the gold earrings she wore to bed. All these things made me a lucky man; I knew this. 

She had been complaining. I didn't mean to distance myself, it wasn't intentional, I swear. 

In any case, I pulled myself out of the bed and searched for my slippers. They were dark blue and chewed up, though we didn't have dogs, we had horses and a small child. I slipped them on by the door, which was the only mahogany thing in the bedroom. Mahogany reminded me too much of my study and of the bookshelves in the library- which I resented, to some extent. Books made me the man I was. My study made the kingdom recover to something salvageable, though nowhere near perfect. If the buildings were cleaned, repainted, rebuilt, or restructured, the people in them were still in need of foundations and plaster. I knew the job wouldn't be easy when I took it- I knew my life wasn't intended to be good. It made me no better than your average villain, though I found myself a martyr, no matter how unwilling it was. 

These people needed me, they needed the guidance of it all. 

I left Charlotte curled up in the middle of our king size bed, still squeaking softly. She looked so grey in the morning light, her hair washed up and gone rancid in her sleep. 

The halls were empty of my butlers, and we only had butlers, because Charlotte was too paranoid to let maids run about the place. She seemed to have a few reasons why. I tried to tell her that maids weren't always interested in robbery, but there was no way to get her to listen. She had always been stubborn. She locked the door to our bedroom, as if people still wanted my head at all. She shooed Peri and Laslow away- they were unneeded. 

I drank with Laslow once, at the bar. The crawlers weren't watching me, but they were trying not to. You could see some of the morally skewed ones sweating under the lanterns, dirty light burning them. Laslow lived well, I had made sure of that. He was a friend of mine, perhaps the only one, and he kept this up over a few months. We strung out our meetings until they were barely happening at all, the slowing as a creature dies in pain. 

I headed down to the kitchen, where a butler was sorting through our liquor, poking at the peeling corners of the labels. He jumped up when he saw me. "Ah, Sir Marx! Was there anything you needed?"

"That'll be quite alright," I told him, looking for the kettle. It was an old one, with creaky iron and a huge loop of a handle. I thought about making Charlotte some coffee- she loved it in the mornings, had once thrown a magazine at a butler just to hurry him up(he scalded coffee all over his arms, his shoes). I wondered if she'd throw a magazine at me, and chuckled a small bit at the thought. 

The butler was pretending to sort the bottles, still. We didn't have many. Most of them were flashy champagne and sherry for when Camilla or Leo dipped in for a visit. I didn't drink at all, otherwise- only with steak, or bear meat. The butler had been stuck on the one bottle for quite some time; it was tall and slender, with a custardy liquid inside. Vanilla would be my best guess. 

"Are you sure you don't want me to cook you something?" he asked me, turning the bottle in his hands. The back label carried the alcohol percentage. 

"Yes, and that's enough from you," I said. He nodded. I sighed. 

I didn't have to cook for myself. The point was, I could do it. There was nothing else for me this early in the morning. I hadn't found a calling yet. The kettle was enough to work with then, lighting up the gas and setting it on the hook so it heated. I poured myself a mug, in the tallest one so I'd have the most- and then I poured Charlotte's. 

I should have told that butler off more, but I was already on my way up the stairs. I liked to dress well when I told them off anyway, and I was in my morning clothes at the moment. 

Charlotte was sitting up in the bed, back against the headboard. She had a thick spined book held up against her arched knees, flicking through occasionally, she didn't look up until I put the mug down on her dressing table. Her eyes were pink with sleep. "Oh, coffee?" she said, moving forward in interest. 

"Yes," I said, and my hands were pressing into the fine china to heat up. "Will I bring yours over?"

"That'd be lovely," she said. She shifted slightly so her legs were laid out all flat, and you could see the lines of them up through the quilt. Her book was somewhere, when I looked, dunked in the sheets so most of it was covered. The letters I could read were charred and curly braced. She had been taken by poetry, and I never heard the end of it. 

I brought her mug over, and her fingertips felt like foam as she took it from my hands. She held it up to her face and let the steam impose itself all over her lips, her nose. A glance over to the wall clock, and she spoke again. "It's nearly eight."

"Right," I said, moving away from her. "I'll take him out to the horses in the morning. You rest, okay?"

I knew she had all the intentions of it anyway, no matter what I said. "Of course, darling."

 

I power walked to Forrest's room to get there before eight. We had his room built near ours, just in case a situation should arise and we'd have to evacuate. It was on the left wing of the castle, a side which overlooked the grounds and the higher class province of town, which seemed to outlaw flat roofs in order to bring in huge, gabled ones. 

His door wasn't locked- I had a butler take care of the latch too long ago to recall specifics. It opened in such a way that surprised you, a light wind could cause a slam. 

"Forrest," I said, quietly at the start. He could get alarmed if you were loud in the morning, after all. His walls were also greyed from summer nights, where the window would be left open all night, letting the chimney smoke in from the housing estates. 

He was sprawled out on his mattress, quilt kicked off the side of it and onto the floorboards. I sighed and picked it up with two fingers- index and thumb, pinching the corner of it. "Forrest, what did I tell you about leaving your quilt on the floor? It'll get dusty, and you could trip over it."

I could tell he was awake by how his neck strained at my words. A hand raised to his face, and he pushed his hair out of his eyes as they cracked open. They looked muddy in the early morning's light. "M' sorry," he said, voice pitchy with sleep, "didn't mean to. It fell over in the night."

I decided not to push the issue, leaning over the bed to draw the curtains. Light hit my eyes, the opposite wall, his toy crate that had stiff hinges. On it, I noticed a stack of the thickest books in the library- Forrest couldn't read yet. 

I picked one up and flicked through the pages, to make sure that he hadn't doodled on the pages, but they were still as blank and text heavy, no harder to read. 

There was fabric rumpling under the books. I frowned and pulled it out, one of Forrest's dress shirts. "What's this doing here?" I asked. 

He went red. "It's to, um... It's to flatten out the creases. I know you don't like when I look shabby."

"It's nothing to be embarrassed about," I told him, "I like seeing you put the effort in."

His eyes flitted towards the window, and winced with brightness sensitivity. "I'll get dressed now," he said softly. 

"Hurry, then. There's a lot to do."

 

Forrest stepped out of his room ten minutes later, in his fitted under armour. He hadn't brushed his hair yet, so I sent him back to fetch a comb- he had this set of them that our former maid, Felicia, had gifted him when he still had long hair. He returned with the comb in his grasp. The spindly teeth of it dug into the palm of his hand, leaving red dots on his already red skin(Charlotte claimed he'd scalded his hand on the iron by his own accord, when she tried to teach him how to use one). 

We stood there, outside his room, waiting for him to tidy his hair up completely. I was growing impatient rather quickly, though I didn't say anything. What perplexed me, was the fact that he hadn't thought to brush it before I showed up anyway. He knew we had so much to do, and time was not a smart currency to waste when there was a kingdom to run. 

I already devoted a lot to him. 

We made our way out to the plains, which stretched for a square acre out front. Sometimes I took Forrest out to the woods instead, to teach him how to hunt deer for target practice, but today  I had already planned to do some horse riding. 

In the war, mounts were some of the most important pieces to be played. I must've gone through at least a dozen of them- when they suffered arrows through their tough flesh, or gashes down their legs, or dark magic slowing their brains down even more. There was only so much my plated armour could do for them. Controlling them well wasn't enough, sometimes. 

The stables were down near the groundskeeper's' shed, short and dull looking. We had two horses tied there, and countless more in the fields beyond the plains. There was a pungent smell of horse turd and rotting wood under the roof. I covered my nose with my sleeve, pinstriped blue, and reached a hand out to my mount. It nosed at my fingers, speckles piercing through its skin, clunky in the bones. 

"Could you get the reins for me?" I asked, voice nasally from my stuffed nose. Forrest had been watching me with an open mouth, but it snapped closed and he rushed over to the racks of reins at the wall. 

"Here," he said, pushing them into my hand; they felt leathery, cold. I nodded and climbed over the gate to rein the horse. 

"Don't just stand there," I said, dropping down onto a soft pile of hay, that may have contained turd. Making sure to drag my feet along the way, I shuffled over to the horse. I hadn't bothered to name this one, even though fighting was rare these days, with no threats of war, and I wouldn’t be burning through steeds anymore. There was hardly a way of telling the difference between this one and Forrest's one at all, though Forrest's eyes tended to go to his one first- he must've known the difference between them- that was how I told them apart. 

He climbed carefully over the gate, unlike I had, not a fell swoop- just a maneuver. He wouldn't let anything other than slips of skin touch the painted metal. I watched him to make sure he reined the horse correctly. 

He fumbled, and corrected himself. The buckle slipped around the horse's nose, ruffling its fur the wrong way. 

I opened the fence on my side and pulled myself onto the shapeless leather saddle. "Let's go," I said, drawing out of the stable. 

 

We trotted along the ridge of the field, swerving around tree stumps methodically. It was still exceedingly at that point, and everything looked so ugly, like film tape washed in mud. My steed kept shivering with the temperature. 

I was in no mood- really, my ears felt like they might freeze off. 

Forrest was as good as he could be at horse riding. He was young, still, only seven and learning how to put himself through the grinder to improve. It was a slow path, but I'd always known he could become another diamond in the jewel case. Leo had fought on a mount, after all. 

When I had first met Forrest, he had said to me, in the smallest voice, that no, Father never let him near the horsies, even though he begged so much. I had taken it upon myself- who else would do it? What father would I be, if I never raised Forrest to raise a kingdom? 

I had learned my mistake the first time around. 

He didn't say anything to me as we headed back to the stables, where I kept some training lances. I rarely liked to joust with metal ones- especially when Forrest was too young to lift his armour in his hands, let alone move with it weighing down his body. 

The wooden lances were in a huge, calico bag. I dismounted and unzipped it, and it let out shrill metal noises as the zip dragged along the teeth of itself. 

Handing Forrest a lance, I said "A proper leader needs to know how to fight his own battles."

He nodded and gripped it with both hands. 

"On horses," I said, "So you need to keep one hand free, for the reins."

I got back on my own saddle and felt the lance through my gauntlets, how cold it must be in these harsh conditions- though I couldn't feel a thing. I looked at Forrest. "Posture."

His spine shot straight up, and he almost dropped his weapon onto the grass. 

"That's more like it," I tugged at the reins and sent the horse whinnying, yet again. Its knees buckled as it stood. I'd have to drape its blanket over it later, with the quilted fabric, the insulation, cut into diamonds. I raised my arm easily, pointing the lance at Forrest. "Now, we spar."

He nodded shakily and wobbled his arm, until his was pointing at me, too. "Do I go first?"

"Would you ask the enemy that?"

"No," he gulped, and charged. 

After training, I left him with twenty minutes to shower before his cello class. He had his case laid out on the ground outside the bathroom door, with its silver clasps and brown nosed print. 

I went back to the bedroom, walking faster to pass my study. Charlotte was passed out on my side of the bed, squeaking again. I slotted myself in next to her, under the quilt, my shoes were getting it dirty with mud and stench and insects I'd stepped on out in the field. The thing they don't tell you about a life of romance, is that when you actually get to see your wife between your busy schedule, she's asleep or wet. 

I reached for her poetry book, where it had been bookmarked with different coloured hair ribbons between chunks of pages, flipped to a random one and found a Dylan Thomas work. 

I chewed at my knuckles as I read it, and read it again. If Charlotte was awake, she'd explain the page to me. Otherwise it seemed like misspellings of the mundane. 

For the next fifteen minutes, I closed my eyes, as if I wanted to sleep. Every single one of my limbs lost feeling the more I stayed still, static overcame me. 

Forrest knocked on the door- it was him, definitely, because he only knocked once each time. Pulling myself together, I switched my shoes for slippers, then went to him.

"Ready for lessons?" I asked him. His hair was wet but combed, face splotchy and pink from the hot water. He nodded and pursed his lips until they went white. 

"Okay," I said, "Let's be quick then; Virion's waiting for us."

I dropped him off to the room off the main hall, in which Elise used to practice her clarinet, also known(short handedly) as the music room. I allowed myself to linger at the door for a moment, in the hopes that I could hear Forrest actually play. 

There was a thud, like he dropped his instrument. A few drones that could've been words, if they weren't from behind a door, were uttered- and then the box dragged across the strings. 

He played the notes flat, yet in correct order. That was enough for the time being. He couldn't bring his case down the stairs by himself after all- I had to hoist it up on one shoulder, free hand on the mahogany banister. 

I stood there for so long, just listening, that the only way this butler could get my attention was by tapping me on the shoulder. I turned, and this butler was pale in the face. Something was wrong, most likely. "What is it?" I asked. 

"There's someone demanding to see you," he said, worriedly.

I snorted. "If it's a hitman, tell him I keep my window open on thursdays, and to call back then."

Just then, another butler rounded the corner. This one was more familiar to me; he was an old one that I'd grown fond of; Frederick, in his scoured overcoat. "It's Siegbert," he said quickly. I froze.

"Siegbert?" 

"I'm afraid so, milord, and he's requesting your presence immediately," said Frederick, looking stone faced and stagnant. I knew he cared somewhat- he was notorious for growing attached to his lords. In  any case, this statement lured me to the door like no other, if only out of obligation. 

 

"You're looking well," I said, upon catching Siegbert's eyes. It wasn't entirely true- his teeth no longer blinded innocent people, his hair became a shaggy, blonde clump sitting atop his head(like a creature, almost), and he'd procured all these scars that slithered up his neck. I opened the door further, to allow him to step inside. It seemed he didn't need allowing at all- he stormed past me. 

I closed the door to the cold air, it was one of the side ones, to prevent the inevitable attention this would gain. Apparently, it had already stacked up enough to draw Charlotte out of the room. I heard her heels click against the steps of the staircase. It could only be her pair, as she was the only lady in the castle.

Siegbert was wearing this very heavy coat, with as much padding as a training mat. The wool had stuck to his(now long) hair, strands of it were coiled around the back of the collar. He pulled it off and handed it to me. 

I'd never considered what to do in a situation like this. 

Charlotte appeared then, looking chipper as ever. "Siegbert,  _ darling _ ," she said, heavily raising her voice until she'd committed a falsetto. He looked at her like she had the black plague while taking a step back. "What brings you here?"

Siegbert frowned so hard it seemed like his mouth had invisible clamps around it. He held up three fingers. "Dinner," he said, "Feed me and listen."

Charlotte chuckled and searched me for eye contact, which I gave after some hesitation. The corner of her lips was pulled up in amusement. "Let's get him some food, then. Right?"

I shook my head, though not in response. The coat was still dragging my arms down to the floor, which it lightly brushed off. It was so  _ long _ , with buttons for miles, formatted like train tracks. "I suppose, if that's what he wants."

Siegbert still had his fingers up. "Three course," he said. 

"Whatever you like," said Charlotte, smiling and leading us astray. 

 

Forrest had dragged his cello case with him to the dining room, and it sat under the table and at his feet, like a pet dog. The first thing he did after looking up from the floor was let out this little exclamation of "Cousin!"

Siegbert dropped his fork, which was spotless. We hadn't eaten yet. I landed back on the handkerchief with a soft sound. "Forrest," he breathed. "What are you doing here?"

Forrest pulled his chair out and lowered himself down on it, moving each piece of cutlery off his own handkerchief, smoothing it with his thumbs and ring fingers carefully. It was red, though it went purple when the chandelier seemed like it'd dim. "I live here," he said, barely intelligible.

"You live here? Since when?" Siegbert asked, sounding defensive. 

I coughed and looked between the two of them. "Forrest has been living here for a while now."

"That's right," said Charlotte, running three fingers down a clump of her hair, pulling strands out with her nails. She had them painted light blue, and they unintentionally matched her irises when she held them up to the light- they both had a sheen, a glint, though I doubted she went over her eyeballs with clear polisher. "He's truly one of the family."

"But what about-"

"One of the family," Charlotte repeated, and one of our kitchen staff walked in with a platter. He placed it near the center of the table, which was far from me as I sat at the head. There were bowls of orange coloured soup with garden cut herbs straight through the center- it could've been a string of grass and I’d have been impressed, that was how little I knew about cooking. 

We ate the whole starter in silence. Or, I ate- Siegbert was wolfing his bread down, lapping at his soup like a parched dog. I let him continue with this, of course, there was no point in beating a dead horse after all. The timing wasn't right, something like that. 

Charlotte made no attempt at conversation; she was next to me. Her legs were swaying up and down under the table. You wouldn't be able to tell, but she was in her black socks, heels discarded by her chair legs, buckles flung open. I sipped at my soup mildly, looking at the tablecloth. It was a heavy weight, smooth fabric, cream coloured with gold embellishments around the corners of it. There were stains around Siegbert's dish. 

A server came with a jug, asking if anyone wanted seconds. No one wanted seconds. He cleared our dishes- all eight of them balanced on the one hand, and cleared back out to the kitchen. The dining room went quiet after that, for the longest time, I contemplated death. Sleep.

Well, we had sent Siegbert off to squirehood, not expecting a return at all. He had been a troubled child- what else was there to do, when he asked for his own death?

He had never looked skinnier in his life. His arms lacked the muscle that grunt work would give you. I wondered what he got up to during the months where he was away, where he fledded to, in avoidance of duty. There was no way he actually did it, after all. Too skinny and too sore. 

He must've been counting his change, probably in the pockets of his heavy woollen coat, going without haircuts because you couldn't eat hair. His eyes widened to the size of bullions when the servers arrived with the roast dinner, and he clicked the tongs of his fork off his empty dish impatiently. 

I never saw someone tear the flesh off the bone, with their teeth, with such a level of ferocity and need. It made me so uneasy, that I could barely pick at my own food. I still did, however, and one of the prep chefs had marinated the meat for too long until it tasted clovey. I'd have to have a word, when this was finally dealt with. 

Siegbert downed his glass and spoke up. "You both ruined me," he said, looking between Charlotte and I. "If you ever wondered what went wrong, it was you two. Especially you, milord," I could hear how he said it, how he mocked me. I went red with anger, assumedly, but kept my mouth shut. He had ruined himself. He wouldn't be in such a state if he acted proper and cordially, like a real successor. I couldn't allow him to take my great name. He could barely lead the orchestra movement, let alone Nohr. 

"Blaming your problems on others," Charlotte scrunched her nose, though only to sigh. She didn't seem affected at all. "How selfish of you."

"Don't you dare accuse me of being selfish! We've all seen how you hoard jewellery, like a fucking crow!" Siegbert cried, and I felt my jaw unset- he was somewhat right. I'd never let it go unpunished. 

"Don't speak to your mother like that," I said, and he rolled his eyes. 

"Don't you mean 'don't speak to my wife like that'? Keep up. You're nothing to me. I don't care what you think, as long as you say you're guilty."

"I'm not guilty," I scoffed. "You and your self sabotaging."

"Is it self sabotaging if I can't hit the bullseye in archery and you put me down for it?" he raised both eyebrows and leaned back in his chair, so his hair was touching the wood. 

"It's your own fault if you can't keep yourself in line. Take some responsibility," I said, slicing away at the meat that I wasn't going to consume. It was so tender and fresh- probably shot and stripped for leather this morning. I had some bloody good hunters employed, and Forrest was shaping up well, having hit a deer's eye just yesterday for the first time. The arrowhead cracked the lense so quickly, like it was colliding with a marble that sprayed blood, that whined and cried out. 

"Hypocrite," said Siegbert. 

"What was that?" Charlotte asked, coldly. "What did you just say?"

Siegbert ignored her, instead picking up a chicken bone with his greasy fingers and chewing it until it crunched from between his teeth. Across from me, Forrest made the smallest sound. "I can't believe you tried to replace me," Siegbert said, "it'll never work. Forrest will end up just as corrupted as me, maybe moreso. By the way- no one told me about Uncle Leo," he turned to Forrest, who trembled under his gaze, "mind telling me what happened?"

Charlotte dropped her fork onto the fine china, and it made this sound that told me it might shatter, but it didn't. "You leave him out of this," she said, dangerously on the edge of snapping. 

"Forrest doesn't want to be here," Siegbert replied, nonchalant as he eyed Forrest yet again,  "are you happy?"

"Yes," said Forrest, straightening his back. I felt some sense of pride at this- his voice went strong as he spoke, his face hardened. I'd raised him well. 

"See? I would've said that too-" Siegbert let his own fork clatter on his cleared plate, draping an arm over the back of the chair, like an elementary school student. "That's how I know he's lying."The servers took the plates yet again, then came out with square dishes of tiramisu. The whole table was waiting for Siegbert to say something- you could feel the tension in the air, glooping restlessly, but he simply dolloped some cream on his cake with a teaspoon and dug in. 

The tiramisu was good, but I knew the caffeine, among other things, would prevent my sleep tonight. 

Also mechanically, Siegbert's head snapped upwards when he was done. "Show some remorse," he said, then wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. 

"For what?" I asked. 

"For ruining me. I'm ruined- look, I can't even function right. I've killed less than you, but I still feel plagued with guilt, unlike you. Heartless," he said, all in one go. 

"It was a war."

"Apologise."

"That's enough of this," Charlotte sighed, "what do you want from us, Siegbert? You know our terms."

He hesitated, seemed to second doubt himself. "I want a room for tonight," he said, "then remorse."

I crossed my cutlery on my empty plate. "I'll give you the first one."

 

We gave him the room, in the left wing like the rest of us. I told Frederick to lock his door sometime after midnight, when the sky was at its darkest, to make sure there'd be no murders on our hands in the morning. You could never tell when it came to Siegbert- so unstable. 

 

After sending Forrest to his room, I found myself unable to sleep. It wasn't a rare occurrence on those nights where you could hear the gunshots through the windows, and even then I could drift off if I really tried to tell myself it was a war, and justified. 

Tonight, I peeled myself out from under my quilt. It was layered thinly with sweat, from when I'd felt trapped by it- and Charlotte was too warm. 

I wake-walked downstairs, not knowing that I'd end up in the throne room. 

The throne room was a long, wide corridor, with statues chiselled out of bronze of all the blood royals, lining this maroon carpet that struck down the center of the room. It was cold where I stood, at the very foot of it, a wolf at the door. 

The gold made my eyes swim. The Nohrian family was always flamboyant in its values. 

I walked down the center and observed- the room got darker the further I went into it. The throne was the darkest part, raised on a step. I lingered a hand along the arm of it- dim gold, almost tacky enough that it'd melt in a pan. The line between fancy and ugly wore so thin the more you achieved. 

I did not have a crown. That was in the jewel case, which even I understood was off limits, and I couldn't fully convince myself I was a king at all as I sat myself down. The door held a new perspective from this height, like it'd bring you assasins or servants or soldiers or friends. Kings had all these things, it seemed, though I did not know. 

I tried to see the world through my father's eyes, yet couldn't. The more I looked, the more I felt like Marx. 

Different. I had gained a new observation of myself from Siegbert's outbursts, and it almost made me want to weep with the honesty of it all. The child was rarely selfish enough to garner what he did. He wasn't selfish, I just took, took, took. 

The door opened as I felt my eyes go glassy, and a slim figure stood, peeking in. Charlotte swung her hips as she walked up towards me, barefooted and night gowned. Her hair was so long, she looked like a hallucination in the darkness. 

She didn't stop before me, instead climbed into my lap. I felt my hands reach for her in surprise, spanning the entirety of her shoulders. She pressed the crown of her head against my chest. 

"Darling," she said quietly, "you've been so distant."

I thought of training with Forrest, of chauffeuring him about the castle grounds, of neglecting the towns and villages to build my frankenstein's child; my heir. And Charlotte. "I know," I said, pulling her closer. 

It just seemed so sick to me that you could spend years carving yourself into a martyr, and you'd still end up as a villain.

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this as a study of Marx's character as a father figure, and Siegbert is *completely* ooc so... sorry about that lmao  
> Add me on twitter @11dishwashers  
> Hope you guys liked it!! This is part of a series~~


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